


want to feel something again (won't you help me)

by susiecarter



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016), Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Casual Sex, Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Extra Treat, F/F, First Meetings, Fuckbuddies, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 13:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21300368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Damn, this chick just won't give up.
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 49
Kudos: 324
Collections: Multifandom Tropefest 2019





	want to feel something again (won't you help me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlsarewolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/gifts).

> I couldn't shake the thought of this pairing plus your "casual sex leads to feelings" freeform, girlsarewolves! I hope you like the result, and happy Tropefest. :D
> 
> There's some unhealthy decision-making of various kinds in here, including mentions of and brief on-page instances of (mild) self-harm, mostly because ... well, Harley. This is set post-Suicide Squad, except that it treats things as though the Joker's apparent death actually stuck; there is a one-line flashback to a Joker/Harley interaction near the end. Harley also does some stuff to Diana, within the context of an ongoing sexual relationship, that would have caused definite physical harm and probable emotional harm to anyone else, so please turn around now if that's a hard no for you! Title borrowed from "Sober Up", AJR feat. Rivers Cuomo.

Damn, this chick just won't give up.

Harley knows Gotham like the back of her hand. Usually that's enough to give her an advantage over most people—not Batsy, of course, but most people.

But it's not the Bat who's after her tonight. Some woman instead. Nobody Harley recognizes; not from Gotham at all, she's pretty sure. And not dressed like a Bat either: face showing, armor with some actual colors, weapons obvious. Except she's following one of the Bat's patrol routes.

And she's strong, smart, fast, and _really_ fuckin' hard to lose.

Harley tilts her head, closes her eyes, and decides all at once that she might as well make this a little more interesting. Getting chased is no fun when you know you're going to get caught in the end. And Harley doesn't like to be bored.

So she stops climbing. Lets her weight tip back, balance shifting off the railing of the fire escape she's on and right over the edge. Dumpster's still where she left it, after all, and she comes down on the corner of it, tips it for a second just far enough to take a long casual step down to the grody wet pavement.

"So what's your deal, anyway?"

The woman's already come to a stop—which isn't nothing, considering Harley's pretty sure she was planning to come at the fire escape at a run and then _leap_ on it. And she's got a shield, some kind of rope, a freakin' sword, but none of them are in her hands. She's just standing there, balls of her feet, poised, eyes on Harley.

And jeez, she's something else. Face like that belongs on a statue, done on purpose, perfected—not on a living breathing person. Almost too pretty to be real.

"You owe Bats a favor, sugar?" Harley prods, taking a step closer.

"Something like that," the woman says after a second.

And she hasn't looked away. She's still watching Harley, unblinking, like she wants to be ready the instant Harley tries to make a break for it.

But her mouth is slanting, too, just a little. And her voice—she sounded kind of warm, just then. Amused.

One more way she's not a Bat: seems she's got a sense of humor.

"Well, I don't believe we've been introduced," Harley says brightly. "Harley Quinn! Pleasure's all mine, I'm sure," and she even sort of means it—not that that stops her from licking her lips, showy and wet and obvious, right after she says it, and letting her eyes slide from that lovely, lovely face to those badass boots, and back.

The face is nice. But those thighs might be even better.

"I am Diana," the woman says, very even. "And you will not get away. Not tonight."

And then she moves.

Harley already knew she was fast. But she's _fast_, like, bullet-dodging fast. Got an arm across Harley's chest before Harley can blink, and the next thing Harley knows the breath's been knocked out of her, wall at her back, because Diana pushed her half the width of the alley and pinned her there.

Pushed her half the width of the alley, but she can tell already, pressing the blades of her shoulders back against the bricks, that she isn't even going to bruise.

Harley sucks in a breath, sharper than she meant to. Her face feels hot, under the makeup. Diana's still got an arm across her sternum, half her collarbone, but the other's closed around one of Harley's wrists. Not punishing, not painful. Just firm, restraining.

And Harley hates being restrained. But she kind of likes this.

She shrieks in Diana's face anyway, half a laugh, just because she can. Pushes back, just a little, just to see what Diana will do.

"Easy," Diana murmurs, riding it out—moving with her, following her motion, without easing up or letting go, not even the slightest opening. "Be easy."

Harley almost laughs again then, for real this time. Nothing about Harley is easy, especially not now, and if that's what Diana wants from her, she's shit out of luck.

Diana's frowning now, just a little, perfect brow drawing down.

"I won't hurt you," she says.

Yeah, Harley thinks, grinning wide. Sure.

She leans in as far as she can with Diana's forearm holding her away, widens her eyes and digs her teeth into her lip, deep, tugging it sideways. "Not even a spanking?" she breathes. "But I've been _so_ bad," and she presses into Diana's grip, reaches up with her free hand to catch Diana's chin—turns it, angled just a little, and _licks_.

One long nasty stroke up the cheek with the flat of her tongue; that's all she gets, before Diana's twisting away from it.

But she doesn't flinch, and she doesn't let go.

Harley figured she wasn't stupid. Worth a shot, though.

"Really?" Diana murmurs, tone mild.

Harley cackles in her face, and doesn't back off an inch. "Aw, c'mon," she says—grinning again, now, goading, instead of mock-disappointed. "Don't you want to? Just a little?"

Diana looks at her.

And Harley—Harley doesn't like the way she does it, right then. Steady, searching. Grave, all those little hints of humor in that perfect face abruptly gone.

"No," she says, soft. "No, I don't want to hurt you."

"You will," Harley hears herself say, and laughs; laughs and laughs. Suddenly it's like the funniest goddamn joke in the world, that Diana doesn't even know how this ends, doesn't even understand this one simple thing. Easy—Diana wanted easy. Pain is easy, even if Harley isn't. "Come on, what'll it take? What'll it take, huh?"

"Harley—"

If anybody's not making this easy, Harley thinks with a hot burst of irritation, it's Diana. The Bat's fine. Annoying, but predictable. Gotham, the night air, the chill and the muck and the mist; the sting of cold metal under Harley's hands, the scrape of brick at her back, the endless driving unbearable ache in her chest: all that stuff, she gets. All that stuff, she knows what to do with. It's Diana who's not playing by any of the rules Harley knows—who won't tell her what they've changed to.

And if Harley doesn't know what the rules are, how's she supposed to break them?

(—she's supposed to be the only thing she can't depend on—)

She snarls in Diana's face, leans back against the wall and uses it to brace herself, to shove a knee between those stupid pretty thighs. Cranes her neck out over Diana's arm against her chest and _bites_ this time, a sharp hard nip against the line of Diana's jaw.

And at the very least, Harley'll give her points for presentation. She makes this a lot easier than the Bat does, with his cowl and his suit and everything, closing himself up tight underneath from head to toe. Diana's bolder, bare shoulders over her armor, bare face, bare throat. Bare legs, between the skirt and the boots. Not as skittish as Batsy—not as afraid, Harley thinks absently, to let herself show through where anybody might see.

She doesn't throw Harley into a wall. Doesn't even shove her off. She waits it out, that's all.

Makes it boring. Harley bites down one last time, chastisement for being so inconsiderate; and Diana just—lets her.

"You are trying to distract me," she says, when Harley's done, calm and even.

Harley doesn't know what else to do but smile at her, brilliant, showing too many teeth. "Don't tell me: it's working."

And Diana's mouth slants again. "Almost," she allows, kind of gently. "But not quite, Harley Quinn."

She moves her stupid arm at last—catches Harley's other wrist, grips them both in one hand, and puts the other at Harley's waist, and—

And _picks her up_, just like that, practically effortless. Picks her up and tucks her almost solicitously under one arm, wrists still held together with the other hand.

Okay, that's pretty hot. Diana's still annoying, Harley decides, ruining Harley's fun like this. But considering the view, Diana's broad strong hand steady where it's holding her suspended by the waist—it's kind of hard to mind.

* * *

It takes a while for her to find Diana again.

Obviously Harley's got to break out of Arkham first, which is always kind of a pain. The time limit makes it a little more exciting, sure: she's got to do it before she can be transferred back to Belle Reve. Not that Waller wouldn't be thrilled to see her and all, but. She's got shit to do.

And of course it's not like Batsy went on vacation or anything. That night—he must have needed Diana's help, somehow. Been tied up with something even more important? Or maybe he'd just broken both his arms and legs.

Whatever it is, though, by the time she's out it's over with. The Bat's back, and Harley has less than no idea where to find Diana. Or—Wonder Woman, it turns out. Rings a bell, once Harley thinks about it. But knowing what people call her when she's got that shiny armor on doesn't make her any easier to find.

Lucky break, really. Some big to-do downtown, and all Harley's thinking is that she might as well crash the party. Enjoy herself. Unwind.

She spends a little while just watching from the roof. Parade of shiny black cars pulling up, shiny people stepping out of them. They're all so cute and tiny from up here, she thinks, almost fondly. Even kind of pretty, evening gowns red and gold and green, bright like butterflies. Putting on a show, just for her, and they don't even know it.

She starts ranking their performances, debating their scores with herself. Some lady in unbelievably sparkly silver earns the highest spot just because she's so fuckin' sparkly, right up until Harley's _got_ to give the first perfect ten to some chick who slips on the wet sidewalk and does one hell of a pratfall. Harley's always loved slapstick.

And then some other lady stops to help her up, to make sure she's okay or whatever and tell her she still looks all right. And it's—

It's Diana.

Harley squints real hard, widens her eyes and then narrows them, but it's still Diana. Not in the armor, not now; but her face is the same.

Probably the thighs are, too, but Harley can't see them this time. Diana's got an evening gown of her own, off the shoulder, long and draping, white, impossibly clean. She crouched down to help the chick who faceplanted, wet sidewalk and all, and as far as Harley can tell there isn't even a smudge to show for it.

Unreal.

Harley bites the inside of her cheek. She's getting annoyed again, she realizes dimly. Frustrated, the slow simmer of it heating up under her skin. Just—looking at Diana down there like that, is all. Smiling politely at strangers, dressed all—all _normal_. Like she doesn't own a giant fucking sword, a lariat that burns like sunshine; like she isn't friends with the Gotham Batman, like she couldn't have picked up that chick who fell down and held her over her head with one hand.

Like she's one of them.

Must be easy for her, pretty like she is. Beautiful, even. Beautiful and barely crazy at all. Because she must be a little bit crazy, to be friends with the Bat; but not enough so it spills everywhere, not enough so she gets a little on everybody she looks at. Not enough that it smears all over everything she touches, not enough that it's _in_ her and she can't get it out—

She just puts it away, probably. Sets down everything that makes her different, when she doesn't need it, and walks away, and doesn't think twice about it.

Fuck that.

This fancy fuckin' art gallery or whatever has a side door. A few of them, but Harley only needs one. And, more specifically, the one that the waiters serving champagne and caviar inside have propped open so they can get a smoke break.

Good thinking. Harley kind of wants to give one of them a thumbs-up, except she's trying not to get noticed here.

Not by them, anyway.

She sidles in, skips down a long dim hallway and then peers out around the corner at the end. And of course, big old fancy marble building like this, there's a row of columns along each side of the main gallery—she grins and darts over, presses herself up against the back of one, and then cranes over to look around the curve of it.

Lots of people here, and lots of fun she could have with 'em, all these pretty peacocks nodding and smiling and toasting each other. But even if she does—she wants to find Diana first. Wants Diana to see her, wants Diana to _look_ at her. Not anybody else, not all these dull ordinary people who want Diana dull and ordinary like them; at _Harley_.

At Harley, the way she did in that alley. The way Harley didn't like, those dark steady eyes all intent—or earlier, amused, a little wary. Or later, warmer, with her hand closing on Harley's waist.

Any way she wants to, pretty much.

It isn't hard to spot Diana in here. Even in a crowd like this, she kind of stands out. She's smiling at some guy, but her eyes are on the room; looking for trouble.

And wouldn't it be nice to oblige her?

Harley lifts her hand, waggles her fingers, bounces on the balls of her feet like an excited teenager. The column's shielding her from half the room, and the six closest people to her all have their backs turned. Diana's the next closest—and the motion catches her eye, and she looks.

Harley tilts her head, and smiles real, real wide.

And Diana looks back at the guy, smooth, and says something polite, pats the back of his hand and inclines her head; and then she moves gracefully away, rounds those half-dozen idiots chatting loudly right in front of Harley, and grasps Harley by the elbow without breaking her stride until she's come around the back of the column too, equally sheltered from view, closing Harley in against it.

"Harley—"

"Well, fancy seeing you here, sugar," Harley murmurs, and looks her up and down, exaggerated. "I don't know about this 'gown' thing—I mean, you look great, don't get me wrong, but the armor was really doing it for me, you know?"

"Harley," Diana says, quiet but clipped, precise. All the polite interest she was pointing at that guy has left her face; she looks tense, braced for something, tall and strong and sure.

Almost like herself again, Harley thinks. Larger than life.

"Harley Quinn, what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean, sugar? Can't a girl just crash a party to come see another girl who cornered her in an alley once and swept her off her feet?" Harley bats her eyelashes, parody, mockery.

She's always loved it when she can tell the truth like it's a lie.

As if there's a difference anyway, most of the time.

Diana's jaw tightens. She glances past Harley at the crowd—just a few strides away, though the overhead lights don't fall back here, and nobody's looking. And then the other way, toward the hallway Harley came from.

"Aw, c'mon—" Harley protests, immediately seeing where this is headed.

But she's too late. And damn, all right, maybe it's worth it just for the way Diana moves her: lifts her, all over again, because dragging or pulling would cause a scene, because she's probably well aware she can't count on Harley to cooperate if she asks. Harley's elbow in one hand, and she just hooks the other arm around Harley's waist and picks her up off the floor, takes the three quick steps she needs to get them into the hallway and out of the main room.

"So this is going to be a thing with you?" Harley says, and it's allowed to come out a little breathless; that's the joke. "You just picking people up without asking all the time?"

"Harley," Diana says, flat.

She's set Harley down again, and her face is as flat as her voice, unreadable.

All this, and now she doesn't want to play? Harley feels irritation like grit between her teeth, an itch that goes deeper than her makeup; she twists out of Diana's hands, turns on her heel, tosses her head and crosses her arms. "What are _you_ doing here?" she spits back, a belated echo. "Wouldn't have picked you for the art gallery type, unless Batsy's hanging upside down from a corner in here."

"I was invited," Diana says quietly.

Harley raises an eyebrow, mouth curling. "Yeah? You helped out with this shindig? Or you just got friends in the right places?"

"Harley—"

Diana stops; the silence gives way after a second to footsteps she could probably already hear. Because, after all, this is the hallway the waiters are using to take their smoke breaks.

And the hot frustration that had been starting to simmer up in Harley gives way to something kind of like delight, because Diana doesn't hesitate at all before pushing open a door that's really clearly marked CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC and pulling Harley through it.

"Gee, are you sure we're allowed in here?" Harley says—possibly a little more loudly than she should, and Diana turns to look at her with a pursed mouth, dark eyes; tows her further into the dimness with one firm tug, and kicks the door shut behind them, and then puts her hand over Harley's mouth.

The footsteps slow a little, but don't stop. Harley smiles against Diana's palm, opens her mouth and presses the tip of her tongue to the base of one of Diana's fingers.

And Diana's mouth purses tighter, but her face looks—her face looks like it did in the alley. Not polite, not blandly friendly. Amused, and intent, and every bit of her attention all for Harley.

"You are very difficult," Diana murmurs, but somehow she doesn't sound like she means it in a bad way.

And she lets Harley wrap a hand around her wrist, yields to it even though Harley probably couldn't move her a fucking inch if she didn't want to go, so Harley can grin wide in the dark and say, "Yeah, I get that a lot."

"I'm sure."

Harley winks at her, and then twirls around to get a look at where they've ended up, without quite letting go of Diana's wrist. Another gallery, looks like; but this one didn't get to go to the party. Shame. Harley makes a sad face at the walls, so they'll know she understands how they must be feeling about it, and then peers at the dim shapes of some of the shit hanging on them.

"So you work on this boring art shit? For real?"

"It's not boring," Diana says evenly, "and it's not shit." She pauses there, and her wrist turns in Harley's hand so she's—she's touching Harley's forearm right back, clasped loose, kind of a weird not-a-handshake. "Many of these artists were considered lunatics during their lifetimes."

Harley sniffs, airy, disinterested, and looks away. "Yeah? So?"

"Some of them were," Diana adds, quiet. "Some of them were—sick. Tired. Angry. People were cruel to them, and didn't understand them. Sometimes it took a very long time for anyone to realize that within them had also dwelt dreams of great beauty.

"But it was so. And this place is here to make sure that no one will ever forget that."

Harley bites the inside of her cheek, hard, and then wheels around and laughs, bright and hard. "And some of 'em were rich fat pigs who got some chump to pay a million bucks for a red square they could hang on a wall," she says warmly.

Diana looks at her in the dark, steady. "Some of them," she agrees.

God. What is her _deal_?

"So why aren't you hustling me out the back, huh? Tying me up in a bow and leaving me on the front steps for my best buddy Jim?"

"If by that you mean Commissioner Gordon," Diana says, sounding amused again, "I did try that last time. It does not appear to have been very effective."

"Yeah, funny how things work out, huh?"

And it is kind of funny. But Diana doesn't laugh.

"You have caused no harm in some time," she says instead, softer. "But it was thought that it might be safer—for you—in official custody."

Man, that's even funnier. Harley wrinkles up her nose, giggling. "Aw, c'mon. Is that what Batsy told you? _Really_?"

Diana frowns just a little—easier to pick it out, now that Harley's eyes have adjusted to the dark. "Amanda Waller would not have been permitted to take you again," she says.

Huh. Interesting. Harley didn't really think the Bat had been paying that much attention. Maybe she hadn't had as tight a time limit as she'd thought on breaking out.

And he told Diana. He's told Diana—everything, probably. Harley feels her lip curl, wants to bare her teeth and snap at something just thinking it; and how convenient, there's somebody right fucking here just waiting to get snapped at.

"So what's he got to say about me, anyway? Got a whole file worked up, does he?" Harley sneers. "You know all you need to know, huh?"

"No," Diana says quietly. "No. Of course I don't. Arkham cannot hold you, and neither can a file, Harley Quinn. But I did ask. I wanted to know what there was, even if it wasn't everything. I wanted to understand."

Like that's supposed to be better. Like Harley doesn't want to claw her skin off just hearing it.

(—god, no, don't get it on you, don't get it _in_ you; nobody's ever going to be able to get it out again, not _ever_—)

"And do you?" Harley bites out, right in her face.

But Diana just looks at her again, that stupid level way she looks at people, gaze flicking back and forth over Harley's face like there's something there she doesn't want to miss, doesn't want to lose sight of.

"Not yet," she says, very low.

Harley kicks her in the head.

Or—tries to. Diana's already moving, ducking low, letting Harley sweep right over her neatly-pinned hair and then striking out so Harley's got to twist the second she's got a foot on the floor for it to avoid it. And she's so fucking strong: irresistible, using that extended forearm to do a quick walkover, just for the hell of it.

It isn't even a fight. Not really. Not when Diana could break Harley's wrist any time she wanted—because she's still got a hand around it, and Harley around hers. They're like dance partners. Dance partners who are trying to hit each other.

Diana lets out a muffled curse once, reaches down and rips that lovely gown of hers all the way up to the point of her hip, just so she can move better, and Harley can't help laughing. She manages to wrap herself halfway around Diana once, yanks the long slim gold pin from her hair so it all tumbles down dark and loose around her shoulders, and that's even better.

"_Harley_," Diana bites out, when she does, and turns in the circle of her arm, grips her by the nape of the neck and practically carries her two strides to pin her to a wall; and god, god, that's best of all. Not pretending anymore, not even a little, the whole stupid illusion tearing apart at the seams. Just like Diana's skirt, Harley thinks, and laughs again.

It's just so _satisfying_, to dig her nails into pretty little art-gallery-consultant Diana, to scrape the paint up and find the Diana from the alley underneath, and Harley can't fucking get enough of it.

"You don't understand anything," she whispers, as sweetly as she knows how, and braces her shoulders against the wall at her back—pushes forward into Diana's hands, and kisses her.

Hard, messy, biting at the curve of her lip. Smearing that classy fucking lipstick of hers all to hell, and Diana—

Diana lets her. Diana sucks in a sharp breath against Harley's mouth, and doesn't move away at all. Presses her back into the wall even harder, if anything, and reaches up, touches her face, fingertips warm even through the makeup.

And then that distant door they left way back behind them opens, light spilling in on the far side of the room, and someone says, "Miss Prince?"

Diana breaks away, glances back over her shoulder. They're still in shadow over here, hidden. But it wouldn't take much to change that. She could step out, claim to have been looking for a bathroom and gotten turned around.

She needs to fix her makeup, after all.

Except all Diana does is look back at Harley, bright-eyed, and smile, and the smile's warm and sidelong and maybe even a little bit wicked. "Quick," she whispers, hardly more than a breath. "Quick, come on—this way—"

And they sneak off, pressed back against the wall, Diana hustling Harley along in the curve of her arm, like they're kids; like they're getting away with something. She seems to know her way around back here—they end up in another hallway, follow it around to a set of stairs, a bunch of offices. And then Diana just—forces one of the locks, breaks it with her bare hands and an instant's attention, which probably shouldn't be quite as hot as it is.

But boy, Harley ain't complaining.

"You aren't exactly what I was expecting," Harley murmurs, when Diana's closed the door again behind them, "from a friend of Batsy's."

And Diana turns to her and smiles, ducks her head in a way that would be almost bashful if she didn't look so damn pleased with herself. "Well," she says. "Perhaps there are a few things you don't know about me, either."

And then they—they maybe kind of fuck on the desk.

Harley wasn't exactly planning on that part. But she's always loved improv, too. And what the hell else is a woman supposed to do, shut in a small dark room with Diana Prince, in a dress that's ripped all the way up to the hip, with her hair loose and her eyes dark and her fucking _looking_ at you like that?

Come on.

So Harley drags her in by that lovely thick hair, bites the line of her throat and feels the noise she makes in the back of it—and then Diana's hands are closing on her thighs, lifting her up (_again_, seriously, she really does have a thing for picking a girl up). Lifting her up, moving her, setting her down on something flat and hard that Harley hopes dimly is sturdy enough for all the things she's starting to think she'd like Diana to do to her on it. And by then, Harley's already got a hand in that convenient torn seam—widens it with a tug, a ripping sound, till it's up to Diana's waist, till she can slide her palm way more easily to Diana's ass.

Which might be even nicer than her thighs.

And Diana makes a pleased little noise into Harley's mouth and leans in closer, holds her by the chin and tilts her head just so and kisses her harder, deeper; works the other hand between them, long strong fingers stroking down Harley's waist and hips and right between her thighs, and man, Harley's never been so glad her booty shorts are so fucking short.

Yeah, Harley decides dimly, this is going to be a really good night after all.

* * *

They fuck a couple more times, after that.

A couple. Several. Possibly maybe sort of a bunch.

It's not a big deal or anything. Just kind of works out that way. Which is to say it works out that way because Harley happens to figure out which hotel suite Diana Prince is renting in Gotham while she's visiting the city from Paris, and happens to get something of a feel for her schedule.

And maybe it just so happens that more often than not, Diana walks in at the end of the day and flips the lights on and Harley's already lying on her stomach on the coffee table, chin in her hands, waiting.

Or, like, now and then Diana Prince possibly takes what might normally be considered an unwise shortcut through a Gotham alleyway, and ends up with her business-casual skirt shoved up to her hips while Harley eats her out, and doesn't seem to mind too much.

It's good, that's all. Diana's—good.

She doesn't just let Harley get away with it, either, isn't just willing to put up with getting groped and fingered and whatever else because it turns out Amazon goddesses like orgasms as much as anybody.

She touches Harley, too. Touches her face till her fingertips come away white—smears them, with a sweet smug look Harley kind of likes, down Harley's throat, along her collarbones, following the line of her waist. Touches Harley's breasts, the crooks of her elbows and the backs of her knees, the joins of her hips, with equally close attention, because she's weird like that. Eats _Harley_ out, real slow, like they've got all the time in the world—or fingers her so she comes over and over, quick, one-two-three-four, till Harley's shuddering and making stupid little gaspy sounds, thighs shaking, without ever looking away from Harley's face.

Sometimes—

Sometimes Harley even pretends they like each other.

Pretends hard. Cleans up as nice as she can, puts on something pretty: modest, ordinary. Stolen out of a machine at the nearest laudromat, usually, but whatever, it works, even if she can't

(—_can't_—)

be bothered washing off the makeup for real.

Shows up at the door to Diana's suite and _knocks_, even if she only got into the hallway by climbing the opposite wall and prying open a window. Like she's supposed to be there, like she belongs there.

Diana lets her do that, too. Plays along just fine, smiling and inviting her in, talking like regular people talk.

(It pissed Harley off when she did it with that guy at the gallery opening. But there's a chance that was more about the guy, about Diana playing ordinary for him, than it was about anything else.)

And she's good about the rest of it, too, when Harley comes over like that. Kissing Harley all slow and soft and gentle—making believe like it's nice, like she wants to be doing it.

She's generous that way, Harley's learned.

It gets to be kind of a lot, after a while. Too much, maybe. Too much in a way that's hard to stand, hard to breathe through, something tight in Harley's chest like wire drawn taut, cutting deeper no matter which way she moves—whether she ignores Diana for two weeks straight, or breaks into her suite five nights in a row.

Harley tries both. Tries everything she can think of to let it out of there, whatever it is. To _get_ it out of there. Starts to seem like maybe her best shot is to get Diana to take it away again, since she's the one who put it there, except Harley can't figure out how to ask her to.

She tries to make it obvious every way she can, short of actually saying it. Tries to make it so Diana won't have any choice except to scoop it all out of her till she's hollow like a grave and then leave her alone.

She shows up all kinds of times—way too early, way too late. Tells Diana she wants things, that she'll leave if she doesn't get them: Diana on her knees, or on her back, or that Harley's not going to touch her except to sit on her face. Slaps Diana's hands away from Harley's hair, her face, anywhere Diana could possibly touch her that might make her chest do that horrible squeezy flippy thing it won't stop doing—except it turns out that's pretty much everywhere.

She spends an entire week not letting Diana kiss her at all. Until it's Harley who can't stand it anymore, until she shows up in the middle of the night and shoves Diana down in the middle of her big soft bed, licks Diana's mouth open and sucks on her tongue and kisses her and kisses her and kisses her, until Harley's lips are sore with it.

It doesn't work.

None of it does.

She must be missing something, she decides. There must be something Diana doesn't want, doesn't like, won't let Harley get away with. There's _got_ to be.

So the next time it just-so-happens, Harley's ready for it. She comes in the window, doesn't say a word when Diana looks up and smiles at her, until the smile goes away again—until Diana's got that look she's always hated so much, all intent, dark and steady and serious.

"Harley," Diana says, soft.

"Shut up," Harley suggests brightly, and kisses her.

Kisses her, but mean: biting Diana's tongue as hard as she can, digging her nails into the side of Diana's long lovely throat.

Diana doesn't flinch from it. Just tries to slow her down, that's all, bearing it patiently, waiting for her to ease off.

Fat chance, Harley thinks.

"Harley—"

"Shut _up_," Harley tells her, sharper this time, shaking her head like she's disappointed. And then she winds her fingers tight in Diana's hair and pulls—really _pulls_, hard as she can, the way where when she does it to herself it makes her scream.

But of course that doesn't hurt Diana either. Diana just lets her, head dropping back, throat bared, eyes on Harley the whole time.

Invulnerable.

That must be so nice.

That must be so fucking nice.

Harley goes away a little, for a minute, after that. She doesn't mean to, but it happens. She doesn't know what she might have done, only that it feels like she blinks and she's—they're in the bedroom of the suite, not where they were before, and Harley's eyes are hot, and Harley's throat hurts like maybe she's been screaming; but all she's doing, she discovers distantly, is laughing.

She's laughing, laughing like maybe she won't ever stop. Her eyes are wet and spilling over, and her hands hurt, and she's laughing so hard she can't fucking breathe.

God. It's funny, that's what it is. The way Diana's looking at her, her warm steady hands against Harley's face, the soothing stroke of her thumbs along Harley's cheekbones—it's so fucking funny she kind of wants to throw herself out a window.

"Harley, no—no," Diana says gently, and moves her hands just a little, just far enough to smooth her thumbs over Harley's mouth again, which is the only reason Harley realizes she'd started biting her lip so hard it's bleeding. "Shh, hush. Hush, it's all right," and then she leans in close, kisses Harley's cheek and the tip of her nose; kisses her bitten-bloody mouth, comes away red-lipped with it and doesn't even seem to care. "It's all right."

"If I," Harley hears herself say, and closes her eyes. Closes her eyes, wills herself to bite her lip again, but instead it spills out anyway, rasping out of her throat like it's being scraped, "If I tell you to jump off of something, sugar, don't do it. Don't—"

(—_I'm not going to kill you. I'm just going to hurt you, really, really bad_—)

Diana's brow furrows just a little. She doesn't understand. "I won't," she says anyway.

"Promise me," Harley says. "Promise me."

"I won't," Diana says again, firm, unwavering. "If you hurt me, Harley, that will not be how it happens. And I will try hard not to hurt you, and you must try hard not to hurt yourself."

What a nice thing to say, Harley thinks. What a nice thing that is to say.

She doesn't realize she said it out loud, too, until Diana's mouth slants just a little, wry and cautious and sweet.

"I will say it again," she murmurs, "as many times as you would like to hear it. And I'm sure I can come up with some things that are much nicer, too."

Harley stares at her, and licks her bloody lip, and tries to catch her breath. "You are so fucking weird," she says at last, unsteady.

And Diana smiles at her for real, then. "Yes," she agrees, "I am," and then she leans in close, and—licks Harley's cheek. Real long nasty stroke, with the whole flat of her tongue, and the makeup must taste like shit but she doesn't stop.

And Harley wrinkles up her nose, and pulls a face, squirms in Diana's gentle grip just for the fun of it, and laughs.


End file.
